


Falling

by MnemonicMadness



Series: Fallen [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Aromantic Asexual Sherlock, Bittersweet, Demiromantic Sherlock, Denial of Feelings, Episode: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall, Feels, Friendship/Love, Hurt No Comfort, Love, M/M, Mentions of Suicide, Mild Gore, Not really though, POV First Person, POV Sherlock Holmes, Possibly Unrequited Love, Pre-Slash, Romance, Romantic Friendship, Sad, Sorry Not Sorry, Stream of Consciousness, Tragic Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-20
Updated: 2016-03-20
Packaged: 2018-05-27 21:25:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6300982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MnemonicMadness/pseuds/MnemonicMadness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I am your drug and your dealer and just like any drug, eventually, inevitably, one day I will destroy you. I just hadn't expected that day to come so soon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Falling

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: All I own are the mistakes. (Please tell me if you see any, this was written at an unreasonable time of night and not beta read, also, English isn't my first language.)

You love me.

You never said the words themselves, but you don't need to. It's written in everything you do, plain and obvious for all the world to see if it cared to look. It's in the way your eyes seem to soften when they meet mine, in your smile, the one that's somehow different from every other one in ways even my superior mind has yet to conceive, that only belongs to me, in the awe in your voice whenever I explain my deductions (and although I will never admit this aloud, for you, I _do_ show off), in the lack of a tremor in your hand when you pulled the trigger, sent a bullet shattering two windows before it pierced cranial bone and ripped through the brain underneath, all to save the life of a man you'd only just met.

I can see it in the rage you try so hard to hide whenever one of Lestrade's asinine pillocks insults me, in your elevated breathing and heart rate whenever I ignore your personal space. In your badly concealed jealousy over The Woman. Oh, silly John, how could you even begin to suspect that I was interested in her? True, her intellect was rather captivating for a while, but she was never more than yet another way to alleviate my boredom. A pawn in a bigger game. I could have told you this, could have given you the reassurance I knew you secretly craved, but if I am honest with myself (and although I aspire to be, I know this is not always the case) I enjoyed your jealousy a little too much, as selfish as that may be.

Then again, I have never denied that I am indeed selfish, more than ever where you are concerned. You have and continue to offer me so much, expecting nothing in return, and there is not much I can give you besides feeding your addiction, fulfilling your need for adrenaline, leading you into the war you so desperately crave and you follow me unquestioningly and eager. I am your drug and your dealer and just like any drug, eventually, inevitably, one day I will destroy you, both of us have known this from the moment we met. I just hadn't expected that day to come so soon.

_I will burn the heart out of you._

The wind is picking up, chasing the clouds over London's sky, playing with my hair (And yes, I have noticed how you stare at it, that you want to touch it. Sometimes I'm tempted to let you.) and billowing my coat. It will start raining soon. To my feet lie the city, in all it's grey, rain-swept glory, and its greatest criminal, my most challenging adversary, one of the most brilliant minds I have ever encountered.

Now the physical repository of that mind lays spilled on St. Bart's rooftop, an expanding patch of red, a puddle of blood with bits of pink-grey brain matter strewn about, torn from its intended osseous confinement by an accelerated piece of metal. (Curious things, bullets. One brought you to me, with another you saved my life and this one will tear us apart again. There is a certain irony in all this.) He died and yet I am the one who has lost our game. And although I will (probably, hopefully, somehow) survive this, he has found something worse than making good on his thread. He has found a way to make me burn my own heart. A part of me is impressed by his brilliance.

_I have been reliably informed that I don't have one._

You will have to watch me die.

_But we both know that's not quite true._

He is still grinning victoriously, his eyes still wide with triumph, staring emptily into the sky and a sudden wave of nausea overwhelms me. I press my sleeve over my mouth, inhaling the comfortingly familiar scent of wool, chemicals and your tea. Or perhaps I just like the thought of that particular scent you've brought into our flat having seeped into the fabric permanently. The thought occurs me that I have no idea how long it will be until I can smell it again and oh, how I hate Moriarty for taking this from me. _Focus. I have to focus. John's life depends on it._

A cab pulls up and I can tell by the way it's driven that the cabbie has been paid an almost outrageous tip to hurry. I can tell that you're in it. I feel disconnected from my body as I pull the phone from my pocket, pressing your number via speed dial is muscle memory by now (yet another thing that will be taken from me). You get out of the cab and start walking towards me, not seeing me, not looking up (People never look up. Looking up would have saved a lot of people in those inane horror movies you've made me watch.) (I didn't actually mind watching them with you.) and the wind carries your ringtone to me. And then I hear your voice and can only hope that mine won't break.

"Hello?"

"John."

"Hey, Sherlock, you okay?"

"Turn around and walk back the way you came, now."

You won't. I know you won't. You will always want to be there with me, to have my back because _friends protect each other_ , because it's in your nature to protect, to heal, to care. To _love_. All those things I am not capable of. My John. My heart.

"No, I'm coming in."

When I speak next, my voice is frantic and the words seem to just spill out because I don't want to have to say this. I don't want to make you watch, unable to do anything to save me, unable to reach me in time. "Just do as I ask. Please."

Even from up here I can see you frown as you turn around, concerned eyes searching for me. "Where?" And finally, you do as I ask, I watch you turn and walk back down the road. The way you came. And I wish with everything I am that I could just send you away altogether, until you can't see me. I can't.

"Stop there."

You do so immediately, without hesitation. "Sherlock?"

"Okay, look up. I'm on the rooftop."

Time seems to slow down as you turn around (unusual, must check this later in my mind palace) and I can see your eyes widen in pure, unadulterated horror. I don't think I have ever seen you this scared, not even when Moriarty strapped you to a bomb. You wouldn't have been, never for yourself, you're selfless that way. No, you only get this scared for me. If I had any further need of definite proof of your feelings towards me this would be it. The distance between us doesn't seem to matter, I can see your expression as if you were standing right in front of me (God, do I wish you were. I want to hold you. This thought surprises me.) and I know that no matter how much I may try to delete it, this image will forever be seared into my memory. Not that I'd ever delete any memory of you, despite what I have told you.

"Oh god."

The horror on your face reflects in your voice. There's a lump in my throat and something painful in my chest. My own voice nearly does fail me now, but I have to do this. Stick to the plan because it's the only way both of us are going to make it out of this alive (probably, hopefully, somehow).

"I... I... I can't come down, so we'll..." I swallow. I know what you will ask as soon as I finish this sentence. "...we'll just have to do it like this."

"What's going on?"

"An apology." And I am so, so sorry. I'm sorry for what I'm about to say, about to do, to make you watch. I'm sorry for hurting you, for lying to you. I'm sorry for not being a better person, sorry for dragging you into all this and sorry for not regretting it. But perhaps most of all, I am sorry that I cannot love you the way I know you secretly wish I could and sorry for not telling you (not realising sooner) that in my own warped and twisted way I _do_ love you. Although I may not have fallen in love, this is the closest I have ever come and if I ever were to experience romantic love it would be for you, of that I am sure. "It's all true."

"Wh-what?"

"Everything they said about me. I invented Moriarty." I throw a glance back at my nemesis' still grinning corpse and a new wave of hatred washes over me. I never used to feel this much...

"Why are you saying this?" There is incomprehension in your voice. It's written in every part of your body.

My voice does break now. I have to make you believe me, but it _hurts_. "I'm a fake."

"Sherlock..."

There's not a hint of doubt in your voice, so I soldier on (yet another case of bitter irony) regardless of the sudden sting in my eyes. "The newspapers were right all along. I want you to tell Lestrade, I want you to tell Mrs. Hudson, and Molly... in fact, tell everyone who will listen to you that I created Moriarty for my own purposes."

There's a hint of anger in your stance now, of denial and protective determination. "Okay, shut up, Sherlock, shut up. The first time we met... The _first time_ we _met_ you knew all about my sister, right?"

"Nobody could be that clever."

" _You_ could!"

A laugh tears itself from my throat without my permission. There still isn't the slightest indication of doubt in your voice, you gaze up at me with absolute trust and faith. Then again, you have always seen the best in me, often believing me better than I actually am, right from the beginning when Lestrade ordered the impromptu drug raid. I hope that one day maybe I will have become half the man you believe I already am. (Hopefully with you by my side. Being a good person without you seems strangely pointless in ways I don't have the time to comtemplate right now.) I am fully aware that I am not a good man and what I am doing right now only serves as further proof. A good man would stand here for all his friends, yet while I would mourn for dear old Mrs. Hudson and the DI, I doubt I would have gone to such extreme lengths for them, but you... There is something fundamentally wrong with the mere notion of a world you no longer exist in. My conductor of light.

(I can't go back to the way I was before you. Can't go back to the utter despair I fell into between cases before you were there to make me eat and sleep and smile, to the punches and insults I received so much more frequently before you were there to smooth the feathers I ruffle. To the drugs I sometimes still itch to take but never would because it would disappoint you. When you pulled the trigger at our first case, you saved a life I didn't want. You saved me again when you changed that.)

There's a tear running down my face, clinging to my chin for a moment before surrendering to gravity and being soaked up by blue cashmere. It's genuine.

"I researched you. Before we met I discovered everything I could to impress you. It's a trick. Just a magic trick."

I can see you close your eyes and shake your head in denial. "No. All right, stop it now."

I wish I could. I wish I could just stop now, come down and take you home. Enjoy Moriarty's death and our victory with breathless post-case giggles while we're both still high on adrenaline, flushed and drunk with joy. I don't want to do this to you (burn my heart). But no. You're strong, much stronger than I am, you won't burn. I won't break you. However long it may take me to dismantle the Consulting Criminal's web, be it weeks or decades, I'll do it for you and once I am finished I will come back to you and try to earn your forgiveness. I know losing me will hurt you, but you will find a way to keep going, to get over me (I seflishly loathe that last part, but I have to believe this.) You will not break.

And now you're walking towards me and no no no no I can't let you get closer, can't give you the chance to reach me in time to break my fall.

"No, stay exactly where you are! Don't move!"

"All right."

You back away. Relief.

My breathing quickens, this cruel magic trick is reaching its climax and I have to go on, there is no alternative. "Keep your eyes fixed on me. Please, will you do this for me?"

"Do what?"

I am sorry, John. "This phone call, it's, uh... it's my note. It's what people do, don't they? Leave a note?"

I can pinpoint the exact moment my words sink in and you realise what I'm about to do, although you still don't want to believe it. Your voice shakes now and the pain in my chest has become nearly unbearable.

"Leave a note when?"

I am so, so sorry.

"Goodbye, John."

"No! Don't!"

I allow myself a moment to gaze at you, once again memorise every line on your face, every mole and every freckle. I can't bring myself to hang up, actively sever this line between us, so I let my arm sink to my side and my phone slip out of my grasp. It falls onto the roof and the screen cracks, a victim of gravity like I will seemingly become in a few seconds.

For the first time, I wish you didn't love me, just so this would hurt you less. I wonder if it would have been a source of comfort or further pain if I had been able to love you back. I know you will regret never having said those three words to me, but I feel strangely glad that you didn't. I don't deserve them and you should save them for someone who does. (There's a sharp pain beneath my ribcage at the thought of you loving someone other than me in this way, but I won't examine this.) I don't deserve you, even if I could have fallen in love with you.

I can hear you yelling my name from below and I know time has run out. I asked you to keep your eyes on me and I feel like a coward for being unable to look at you, but I know I couldn't bear to see your reaction so I turn my gaze to the perpetually grey horizon.

It's time. All I have left now is my desperate belief that this will not break you and my equally desperate hope that one day I will have the chance to fix this, to become someone worthy of your love. So I spread my arms, and I fall.

For you.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! And comments/feedback are much appreciated!!!
> 
> (Maybe I'll write a sequel when I have the time, would you want to read one?)


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